


It's Fucking Fine

by nverenders



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Mentioned Ian Gallagher, POV Mickey Milkovich, POV Third Person Limited, Post Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 11:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15047810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nverenders/pseuds/nverenders
Summary: "It wasn’t because of Gallagher. It wasn’t. That fucker had nothing to do with it. So he fucked off to the army – fine, what fucking ever. Bitch would’ve done it either way; it wasn’t Mickey’s fault he wanted to get shot at in some desert halfway across the world. Fucking fine. Mickey didn’t care, he didn’t, and it wasn’t the reason why he was drunk and high more often than he was sober, it wasn’t the reason he spent most of his afternoons down at the Alibi, and it wasn’t the reason he broke a few more ribs and noses than what was probably necessary. It fucking wasn’t."My interpretation of what Mickey might have thought/felt/gone through after Ian left at the end of season 3. It's set between season 3 and 4, maybe a bit into season 4.





	It's Fucking Fine

**Author's Note:**

> i realize im a bit late to the party but ive been rewatching shameless and,,,, I Would Die For Mickey Milkovich so i had to write this

It wasn’t because of Gallagher. It wasn’t. That fucker had nothing to do with it. So he fucked off to the army – fine, what fucking ever. Bitch would’ve done it either way; it wasn’t Mickey’s fault he wanted to get shot at in some desert halfway across the world. Fucking fine. Mickey didn’t care, he didn’t, and it wasn’t the reason why he was drunk and high more often than he was sober, it wasn’t the reason he spent most of his afternoons down at the Alibi, and it wasn’t the reason he broke a few more ribs and noses than what was probably necessary. It fucking wasn’t.

So Gallagher left. Left his family confused and worried, left Mandy without her best friend, fucking left and didn’t look back. And what the fuck did he even want Mickey to say? Beg him not to go, tell him he was gonna divorce Svetlana and set up house with him? If he thought Mickey could just do that, he was dumber than he looked. What, as if he wanted to marry her? Have a fucking kid with her, play the goddamn Brady Bunch? He had to fuck her with his dad practically pointing a fucking gun to his head, bloody and beaten senseless. He never wanted any of it.

But whatever, Mickey was fine. He was fine. He had his own problems to worry about. Money was tight (which wasn’t unusual), Svetlana was pregnant and ridiculously underpaid, Mandy’s boyfriend practically lived there, and Iggy and Collin were sitting on their asses most of the time. The house was too full too often and even though it wasn’t the friendliest, most welcoming place to begin with, Mickey found it more and more unbearable. The Alibi wasn’t much of an alternative, but at least it was a place where he could get drunk without anyone asking something from him or muttering what were probably insults in Russian.

But the booze didn’t stop his mind from always circling back to Gallagher. If anything, it made it worse. Fucking Gallagher. A minimum of four years of fucking war in some country Mickey couldn’t even point out on the map. And that was assuming he made it out alive.

Fuck.

Mickey tried so hard to push away the images of Ian bleeding out on the sand, shot and gasping for breath by some asshole who didn’t even know his name. Dead.

_Fuck._

Mickey wasn’t the kind of guy who cried, he wasn’t someone who wore his feelings on his sleeve, but fuck if his eyes didn’t sting every time he thought about that shit. Mandy’s been colder towards him since Ian left, and Mickey knew she blamed him. And even though he would never tell her, he blamed himself too. No matter how much he liked to convince himself it was just Gallagher’s fucking army fetish, he fucking knew it was his fault. And if Ian died… fuck, who knew when they’d even find out about it, since he couldn’t have signed up using his own name. But if he died, that would’ve been Mickey’s fault too. And thinking about that made Mickey sick to his fucking stomach, made his chest constrict and his hands shake, and the only thing he could do about it was drink and take pills until he didn’t fucking feel anything anymore.

Because fuck, when did he get so fucking attached? The whole point was not to, because Mickey could deal with wanting to be fucked by guys if that was all there was to it. He could deal with that, with just sex, but this? He didn’t know when it stopped being just a convenient fuck whenever he felt like it, but it was long before Ian ever came to his house waiting to see if Mickey could admit it. He couldn’t. It was… fuck, with everything that happened, Mickey just couldn’t say it. Not after reality hit him in the face in the form of his father’s fists. Because he was really starting to lose himself in their little thing, inviting Ian over for a fucking sleepover not only to bang but to watch movies together and hang out like they were a fucking middle school couple. Christ, it was long before that. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but maybe it was even way back when Ian came knocking on his door, looking like a lost fucking puppy, saying how he needed to see him, had nowhere else to go. It made something inside Mickey shift, and he didn’t say anything, didn’t offer to listen to Ian because he didn’t want to let himself care, but he got his dad off his back and hurried to the store, let Ian fuck him, and convinced himself it was just as good of an opportunity to screw as any, and if it meant something more to Ian… well, what did he care? He got off and that was all he wanted from Ian. Looking back, with everything that happened between then and now, he was probably in too deep already.

Some days he was so fucking angry at himself he let it happen, so angry he didn’t just stick to the rules of standard casual sex, because then he wouldn’t have to feel all this shit and Ian would still be here and nothing would ever have to change. Other times though, he let himself admit that maybe it was out of his control, bound to happen sooner or later. And that just made him more fucking angry and conflicted because he couldn’t make him stay, didn’t even properly try, and it was too fucking late now and who knew if he’d ever see the fucker again. Because he mattered, and Mickey knew that, but he couldn’t think about it for too long, so he drowned it down with booze and drugs and whatever was handy.

Fucking Gallagher. Crashed into his life with a goddamn tire iron and a pretty face and completely tore apart everything Mickey thought he knew about himself and what he wanted. Because Ian gave a shit from the fucking beginning, and more than anything else, that scared the hell out of Mickey. The fact that he could just show up in juvie, tell him he fucking _missed_ him, put his hand on the fucking glass and look at Mickey like he was someone actually _worth_ missing. Hell, not even his own family visited him in juvie, and yet there he fucking was, looking all pained and broken up over Mickey being behind bars for a year.

But now he left. Because of Mickey. Because of what he couldn’t or wouldn’t do. And it sort of felt like a stab in the gut that after all that, Ian would rather ship off to war than be in the same city as him. Was he really a worse option than the Army? The goddamn Army, where they fucking brainwash you to go and kill some other poor fuckers without ever actually telling you why?

Those thoughts kept filling his fucking head, overwhelming him, and even Mandy and his brothers started to notice his drinking was getting a bit out of hand. Mandy knew what it was about, or at least she thought she knew – Mickey didn’t fucking know anymore. Who knows what Ian told her, being her best friend or whatever. All he knew was that she now gave him long, pitiful looks combined with resentment and disappointment. And disgust too, maybe. Like she didn’t use to think he was _that_ much of a piece of shit, but then he proved her wrong. Proved to her that he was worse than she believed him to be, and then had enough nerve to wallow in self-pity about it, but not enough to stop that stupid, stubborn fuck from leaving.

He hated that she looked at him like that now. They were never really the sort of siblings who were close in the way that the Gallaghers were, but they loved each other. They did. They didn’t have to talk about their fucking feelings and how their day went and every single minor problem they had to deal with like that crazy bunch seemed to, but they knew they cared, could count on each other, and had each other’s backs if anything happened. And they still did, but he wished she’d stop looking at him like he was the scum of the fucking Earth, like everything in the world was his fucking fault. He wanted his fucking sister back, he wanted her to call him a loser and an asshole and only half mean it like she used to. This fucking silent treatment shit was getting on his fucking nerves, and the pity was even fucking worse.

Fuck her. What the fuck did she even know, anyway? She had her stupid buff boyfriend, she wasn’t all pissy about that Lip asshole anymore, and she wasn’t running over any neighborhood bitches either. So what if Mickey didn’t come home from the Alibi until late, drunk off his ass? Wasn’t any of her fucking business.

 

***

“Man, what’s with you? We never fuckin’ see you anymore,” Iggy complained from the couch one afternoon when Mickey finally woke up, hungover as hell, and stumbled into the kitchen.

“Been busy,” he grumbled in response and poured himself some coffee, not really in the mood for talking. His head felt like it was about to split.

“Yeah, doing what?” Mandy scoffed from the table, in her uniform already, puffing on a cigarette. He could practically taste the sarcasm in her voice. “Getting drunk and shooting cans again? Sounds real serious, Mick.”

“Svetlana at work?” he asked instead of replying and leaned on the kitchen counter to keep his balance.

“If you can call jerking guys off all day ‘work’,” Mandy shrugged.

“Motherfucker!” Collin yelled from the couch, causing Mickey’s head to violently throb, and the sound of virtual gunfire from Call of Duty intensified.

“Jesus, turn that fucking shit down!” Mickey groaned, holding his hand to his head as if was somehow going to ease the stabbing pain. The sound got quieter. “Fuck,” he sighed and sat down.

He could feel Mandy’s eyes on him, that fucking pitiful, disgusted look again, but he couldn’t be bothered to argue, so they sat in an uncomfortable silence while he sipped his coffee, the only sound coming from Iggy and Collin’s game.

“Hey Mickey, don’t take the car on Thursday,” Iggy said after a while.

“Why, you goin’ somewhere?” he asked, half interested. If he and Collin were going on a run, he might as well go with them. He needed something to do, some fucking distraction.

“Yeah, stupid. Gotta pick dad up from prison, remember?”

Fuck. _Fuck._ Mickey had forgotten about that. Was he really getting out already? An unsettling feeling climbed up his stomach, spreading through his spine. He really fucking wasn’t looking forward to having his dad around, on top of everything else. When he was home, his presence was always so felt, even when he wasn’t actually in the house. He just oozed this fucking atmosphere of tension and aggression – you couldn’t avoid it rubbing off on you. And Mickey’d long outgrown idolizing his old man – he was still in elementary school the first time he’d been on the receiving end of his father’s beating, and admiration and inspiration turned into fear he could never really grow out of. Fuck, if not before, it proved itself to be justified when he walked in on him and Ian that day. That horrible, fucked up day when everything went from being fine for once to being close to a nightmare in a matter of seconds. Mickey shut his eyes and rubbed them, trying to shake off the images of Terry’s furious red face, Ian with blood dripping from his, himself being beaten repeatedly until he couldn’t fight back anymore, lying on that couch thinking that was it, they were gonna fucking die, Svetlana coming over, the fucking look on Ian’s face when Terry made her… Christ. He didn’t want to fucking remember that day.

“Yo, Earth to Mickey? You hear what I said?” Iggy’s voice snapped him back to reality. He’d gotten off the couch and walked over to the kitchen table, taking a cigarette from an open box and lighting it up.

“Yeah, fine, I won’t take the fucking car,” he snapped back.

 “Jesus, what’s gotten into you?” Iggy asked. Mickey didn’t reply. “Anyway, you wanna come with us?”

“No.” _Fuck,_ no. Mickey was gonna postpone that fucking reunion for as long as he fucking could.

“Seriously, what’s with you? Every time I see you you’re either drunk or hungover. And not like, in a fun way. We haven’t pulled any shit together in ages, man,” Iggy said, irritated but not like he actually gave a shit.

“He’s having relationship issues,” Mandy said casually, unbothered by the warning look Mickey gave her.

“Wife problems already, huh?” Collin laughed as he passed them on his way to the bathroom. “Jealous of all the guys she gets off on the daily?”

“She fucking wishes I was jealous,” Mickey mumbled.

“Sure,” Iggy snorted.

“Look, it’s none of your fucking business, alright?” he snapped again. Raising his voice was doing fuck all to help his headache, but his nerves were wearing thin, so it was either this or throwing punches. “Will you just leave me the fuck alone so I can deal with this hangover in silence? Jesus.”

“Whatever, I’m off to work anyway,” Mandy put her cigarette out and got up. “You have to find a better way to deal with your shit, Mick. This is pathetic,” she told him flatly before taking her bag and walking out the door.

Mickey’s jaw was clenched, his knuckles going white from the tight grip on his coffee mug. Fuck her. What did she know, anyway? Overheard half a conversation and suddenly she was acting like she knew everything that went down between him and Ian.

Iggy was staring at him, a stupid fucking confused expression on his face, like he was expecting Mickey to say something.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” Mickey asked after a while.

“Nothing, man,” he said. He sounded surprisingly worried. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fucking fine,” Mickey insisted, voice forceful but even. “What do you care, anyway?”

“You’re my brother and all.”

“Yeah, well, that don’t mean you gotta start acting like you give a shit.”

“Whatever, man,” Iggy scoffed. “Sorry I fucking asked. Give me a call when you quit acting like a little bitch and wanna hang.” He got up from the table and turned towards the bathroom. “Yo, Collin! Come on man, you drownin’ in there?”

A few seconds later, Mickey could hear a distant flush of a toilet, and Collin walked back into the room.

“Man, I don’t think we should’ve gone to that diner earlier,” he said. “Got me all clogged up, and the food wasn’t even good.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Mickey asked, his patience running out.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, we were just leaving,” Iggy said, cutting Collin off before he could say anything. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Yeah, you too,” Mickey returned half-heartedly, not sure if Iggy even heard him before he and Collin were out, slamming the door behind them.

Mickey let out a long breath. Fuck them too. Assholes didn’t even fucking do anything unless he thought of something to get the money and needed a few extra pairs of muscles. Sure, they dealt here and there but they spent the money faster than they got it. Fucking good-for-nothing dumbasses. What gave _them_ the right to complain about anything _he_ did?

He eyed the half empty bottle of vodka on the counter. Considered taking a swig or two. Best cure for a hangover, right? He got up, took the bottle. Stopped.

Fucking Mandy and her stupid ass comments no one asked for. He put the bottle down with a loud thud – fine, what fucking ever – and went to take a shower. He had to be sober to look over their finances and bills and shit anyway, and he had to do that before dad got home. Fucking Terry would go crazy if they shut the water or power off while he was there, and since Mandy had an actual job and his brothers were barely literate at best, it came down to him.

It was nice to have the house all to himself, even for the little while, but it didn’t take him long to realize the heavy silence wasn’t much of an alternative to the extensive noise. The lack of people yelling around did help his hangover, but being alone with just his thoughts wasn’t what he wanted either. He tried to keep them at bay by busying himself with the finances, but the bills couldn’t keep his attention for too long and before he knew it, he was back to thinking about Ian.

Mandy’s words rung in his head like an annoying little song, on repeat, and he sort of regretted not at least telling her to go fuck herself. He didn’t _have_ any shit to deal with. He solved his shit months ago, and if Ian wasn’t happy with the result then fuck him too. Marrying Svetlana was the only fucking way to go if he wanted to avoid risking both their fucking lives. Jesus. He had to do it, there was no other way. Ian should have understood that. He let out another shaky breath and lit up a cigarette. Fuck. It was the only option that didn’t include anyone ending up dead. Couldn’t Ian see that?

And the worst, most confusing part about it all was that, when he allowed himself to really think about it, the fucking mountain of anger inside him wasn’t even aimed at Ian. He wanted it to be – he tried real fucking hard to just dump it all on him and his stubbornness and hell, even selfishness – but the thing was, he couldn’t. Despite his best fucking efforts, Mickey couldn’t blame him for getting the fuck away from him and this entire mess. It hurt like a motherfucker but fuck, after everything Mickey had put him through, he just couldn’t blame him. He was well fucking aware he wasn’t worth half the shit Ian had put up with because of him, and truth be told he still didn’t get what made him stick around for so long.

Maybe part of the problem was that Mickey took his dog-like devotion for granted. Hell, it’s been what, two years since they started messing around? Mickey had never had a fuck buddy for more than a month. And at first him acting like his clingy goddamn girlfriend annoyed the shit out of Mickey, but he never really had it in himself to tell him to fuck off (and besides, the sex was pretty fucking great). And then, despite his best efforts and a good deal of denial, it sort of grew on him, how no matter what he said or did, Ian still persisted and pushed and stayed. Although, to be completely honest, it was also fucking terrifying for so many reasons Mickey didn’t even really understand. It freaked him the fuck out. He just couldn’t get rid of him. It wasn’t that he exactly tried, but he also didn’t give him any reason to stay. Not when he pushed him away each and every time Ian tried to do anything that didn’t fit inside his idea of extremely casual, no-strings-attached sex, not when he told him he was nothing more than a warm mouth, not when he was trying to kill his goddamn dad, and not even when he beat the shit out of him outside that abandoned old wreck of a building. Fuck, not even then. Mickey was drunk, but he didn’t think he’d ever forget that. How he wouldn’t let him leave without so much as an acknowledgement, how he said all the things Mickey didn’t want to hear or think about or even consider, how he just stood there and took in ever punch and kick without ever fighting back. And he always fought back. It was what he did. That fucker never went down without a fight. Never except for then. Mickey didn’t want to think about what that fucking meant – he spent too long convincing himself that nothing about anything meant a single thing to him.

And yet he came back, anger and desperation oozing off of him, trying to get him to just say “fuck it all” and blow the whole thing off – the wedding, his dad, this whole life he was forced into. But he didn’t, it was too much, and he just assumed Ian would deal and come to terms with that too so they could go on like nothing ever happened. He didn’t. He had a line too. And it was way further than Mickey ever deserved, but it existed and Mickey found a way to cross it. He fucked up, he finally got rid of him, and he’d never thought it would hurt so fucking bad, or that he’d ever let himself care enough to feel like this. But Gallagher was gone and it was all Mickey could think about and it hurt like no punch or insult ever could. Fuck. He wanted to beat the shit out of himself.

Instead, he brushed his teeth, fixed himself something to eat, and sat down with the bills again. So Gallagher was gone. Fine. It fucking hurt. Fine. But there was shit Mickey had to deal with here; Terry was getting out, and Ian or no Ian, he had to pull himself together and stop acting like a 12 year old goddamn girl.


End file.
